The Secret Santa plan went exactly the way it needed to go.
Miraculously.
And I say “miraculously” because when Sloane and I are in the same room, disaster isn’t a possibility—it’s a mathematical certainty.
And it really did take just one second—one single second—to fry my entire brain.
The moment I stepped into the lounge at The Snowed Inn… I saw her.
Sitting on the couch, legs tucked to the side, cream tailored trousers, a burgundy silk blouse, clear glasses perched on her nose, a red headband in her perfectly straight hair.
And my brain? Evaporated on impact.
I spent half the night trying not to stare at her like a teenage boy hitting puberty.
And the other half trying to piss her off just enough to distract myself.
It worked.
Too well.
And now here we are: in the holiday-themed lobby of a cozy inn, sitting on a couch by the fire, surrounded by people—and I am completely trapped by the most dangerous person I know.
Sloane Heart.
Cheerful—actually, drunk.
Playing Truth or Dare.
Fantastic.
My personal nightmare.
When the turn finally lands on me, she points a finger at me, dramatically slow, like a sexy villain in a movie.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
I have no idea why I said that.
Some kind of latent self-destructive impulse, probably.
Sloane smiles—one of those smiles that meansI am going to destroy you and enjoy every second of it.
“Great,” she purrs. “Then get up and do a sexy dance in front of everyone.”
…Maybe I misheard?
Nope.
I understood perfectly.
She’s staring right at me—dead serious, deeply pleased with herself.
“Not happening.”
“You picked dare.”
